


Emotional Anorexic (Markiplier/Reader)

by In_Wolfs_Clothing



Category: markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Drabble, F/M, M/M, Mental Health Awareness, OCD, Oneshot, Reader Insert, Youtuber - Freeform, x Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 03:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18770398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Wolfs_Clothing/pseuds/In_Wolfs_Clothing
Summary: Markiplier x Reader one-shot. "You cannot wait until then; when you get to see the one perfect thing that exists in a terribly imperfect world."





	Emotional Anorexic (Markiplier/Reader)

Strumming strings on your guitar, you wrote slowly against the paper. In order to make up for the lack of perfection within yourself, you had practiced your handwriting day in and day out. You hoped that if you could make this written letter full of beautiful letters, he would come back to you. He had said he couldn't be with you because you were so obsessed with making sure everything was just right.

"But only right for you," he had said. "You never think about anyone else."

And you wanted to tell him about all the hours you spent in front of the mirror before your first date, wanting to make sure every strand of hair was swooping towards the left. You wanted to look perfect for him.

And when he arrived at your door, how you had resisted the urge to twist the doorknob left, then right, then right, then left again. You had just opened it, wanting to make perfect time for him.

How you hadn't let go of his hand to unbutton, then button, then unbutton your vest - even when you walked past of a blue car. Your fingers had trembled when intertwined with his, just wanting to reach up for the fasts. He had laughed, asking if you were nervous. You were. You hated blue cars.

And how you didn't ask the waiter to set down a straw, then a glass, then a glass, then a straw. How you refused to pick up the fork, then the knife, then his spoon, then his fork, then your spoon, then his knife.

Impatiently, he had tapped his finger - 1, 2, 3, 4 - 5 times against the table. You listed breakfast items in your head to keep from telling him that 4 or 6 would have been a much better amount. You hated odd numbers, but cereal, milk, coffee, omelets, and oatmeal seemed to comfort you. But then - no, no, no - he did it again. This time - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 - 7 taps. You excused yourself to the bathroom. You didn't want to ruin his perfect date.

In the bathroom, you had the chance to see that your hair was disheveled from the wind, your collar wrinkled, and there were exactly three stains on the cuff of your shirt. Women filtered from the bathroom when you began to cry, opening and closing a stall door 10 times before grabbing toilet paper and wiping away your tears. You stared at the ground as you returned to your table. "Cereal, milk, coffee, oatmeal, and - no, no, no - that's not right," you had muttered to yourself, tugging at your earlobes. "Cereal, milk, coffee, omelets, and oatmeal." Mothers clutched their children as you walked by.

You wonder if he's ever remembered way you examined him once you were seated again. He had 8 freckles on his face - above his right eye and on the left side of his mouth. You liked the number eight. His nails had been a straight line, no chips or cracks or jagged edges. The brown locks of hair were perfectly separated from the red. And when he smiled, the corners of his lips met at an even height. If you were an artist, you would've liked to paint his portrait. But, eight of them. Eight was a nice number. 

You have woken each morning, making sure that you still know how many freckles are on his face, and what time he gets up. You are sure that, although he is gone, it is not useless information. When he returns to you while clutching this letter, it will not be useless information.

You cannot wait until then; where you get to see the one perfect thing that exists in a terribly imperfect world. He was the only thing that was right in your life - no, perfect. How many times have you written that?

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.

You hate odd numbers.

 

From,  
_Perfect_


End file.
